


Unspoken Rules

by blackidyll



Series: Traceability [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Conversations, M/M, Post-Skyfall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 17:51:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackidyll/pseuds/blackidyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You can leave the gun and your equipment behind. You can remove all your clothes and scrub down but you won't find it, and I'll still be able to track you." </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Bond is restless after M's death. Q takes steps to make sure the agent doesn't go MIA again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspoken Rules

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Milaryn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milaryn/gifts).



> I should say upfront that I have very little knowledge of the Bond franchise beyond the Craig!Bond movies and this was written entirely based on the events and characterization in _Skyfall_. Hopefully everything still makes sense!

There's an unspoken rule about how to handle stressed, currently off-mission agents who have been bent far beyond their breaking limits but haven't (visibly) broken, the criteria of which runs along the lines of "you're fine until you attempt to blow up headquarters for reasons beyond boredom or mission simulation".

The unspoken rule can be summed up as such: don't handle them. The agents are big boys and girls. Coddling only makes them balk.

Q wants to laugh every time he thinks of it. As it is, the dancing light in his eyes makes his assistants hunch protectively in front of their monitors. He smiles at the sight even as he sends out the text message (simple but effective), a summons for the only one who would consider it so.

*

He sits in front of _The Fighting Temeraire_ \- still terribly melancholy, really - at the National Gallery and waits for 007 to wander by. He has it estimated down to within a margin of only fifteen seconds, dependent on Bond's mood; even when troubled, the man manages to drag his feet without actually breaking his smooth, confident stride. There's a science behind it and Q can formulate the equation for it, but science executed naturally and effortlessly is an art form, so he desists.

Sometimes, estimations are fine. His fingers tap out the countdown against the phone in his pocket.

At four minutes and eighteen seconds (check; his professional estimate of the fifteen-second margin was accurate indeed), Q hears the soft sound of fabric rustling against cold wood. Bond slides into the space beside him, leaving a respectable foot and a half between them.

Q's lips quirk in a smile.

"I have a tracker on you," he tells the painting, folding his hands together. 

Bond turns to look at him, his gaze steady. "You gave me the radio. And the gun."

Q twitches two fingers in the air in dismissal. "Yes, but I have a _tracker_ on you." He flicks his eyes to the side, catching Bond's eye for a second, then looks back at the painting. "No one quite knows what you'll do. Thus, I took steps to bridge the gap."

Bond's stare goes heavy, a palpable weight against the side of his skull.

"You can leave the gun and your equipment behind. You can remove all your clothes and scrub down but you won't find it, and I'll still be able to track you."

A beat. Then, "I thought you need informed consent to embed chips. Even for us poor souls."

Q lets the silence speak for itself -  _really, 007? Do you imagine that_ I _would need to resort to RFIDs under your skin? You can do better than that._

It's not easy to make an agent give in and it's a measure of how much strain Bond is under that he reacts first, a barely audible breath of a sigh. But Q gets what he wants; Bond is looking at him, really looking this time, no longer simply scanning but actually assessing, considering, forming plans. 

_Baiting: successful_. _And now, to reel_.

Q rises fluidly to his feet. He turns, at perfect angles, and slides one bare hand against Bond's cheek, fingertips at the back of the agent's jaw, thumb under his chin.

Bond arches an eyebrow, and Q just grins down at him.

That's one of the unspoken rules for Q, actually. The agents are fine (most of them sleep with each other, anyway), but no one touches the brilliant, young genius, MI6's new Quartermaster, unless they want their clearances suddenly wiped clean. It never fails to amuse Q. He understands the allure of a beautiful young man made untouchable, but really -- the reputation just makes him all that more dangerous when he chooses to contradict it.

"I enjoyed that train chase. We should do more of that next time. Expand the parameters to the whole London Underground. My technology and intellect; your reflexes and instinct. Multiple targets. An expanded timeline. Bolstering London's security protocols. Yes. That will be fun."

_Fun_ is a word that strikes fear into his team, even more than the unholy glee he expressed at times. Even the corners of Bond's eyes tighten slightly in mild perturb.

Q pats Bond's face lightly - there's a faint shadow of stubble, a very light fuzz against the pad of his fingers, much more than there should be if the agent had shaved properly that morning. The numbers run idly through Q's head, but he has more complex puzzles to untangle.

He pulls back, and Bond's arm comes up, whip-quick, hand closing around his wrist. Q pauses, bent somewhat awkwardly in a posture between leaning over and standing straight, and carefully tests the grip. It is firm, unmovable and doesn't hurt a single bit, and Q untangles his wrist with a slight twist. Bond lets him.

Q doesn't smile. Bond doesn't either, but there's something new in the air between them, something lurking under their respective poker faces. Q knows his is born from the jolt of satisfaction of being _right_ , but he isn't entirely sure what's going on in Bond's head. He needs more data. 

He's sure he'll get more, and soon.

"I'll be in my lab when you want me," Q says. He pulls out his phone and taps a quick code that disengages the noise scramblers around the painting. "Try not to take too long, 007."

He doesn't look back when he walks away, and he doesn't need surveillance to know Bond is watching him.

In acknowledgment, in parting, Bond replies, "Q." 


End file.
